The Columbus Code (25 page)

“Did you ever protect the president?” Sophia asked.

Winters' turned away from the scene that whipped past them en route to Toledo and grinned at Sophia. They'd been driving in silence for an hour and she plucked that out of the blue?

“No,” he said. “You don't want that duty. No disrespect to the presidential office, but it's a lot like babysitting. Besides, I'm not tall enough for it.”

Sophia tilted her head. “Forgive me. I am afraid that what I know of the Secret Service has come from watching American movies.”

“That's probably all anybody needs to know.”

“Am I to assume that is all you plan to tell me about your work?”

“It's all I
can
tell you.”

“I understand.”

Winters liked that about her. That willingness to let it drop was why he'd told her as much as he had the night before. That and the fact that Sophia Conte looked even more intriguing by candlelight than she did when the sun was shining across her face the way it was now.

“I certainly feel safe now,” she teased. “I have a trained professional with me.”

“But you're still not going into any caves with me.”

“Maybe,” she grinned. “One day.”

Winters turned away to look out the window once more.

“Did I say something wrong, John?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“No,” he sighed. “You didn't say anything wrong. I just haven't told you the whole story.”

“Is it a story I need to hear?”

“You mean you wonder if you hear it whether you might want to drop me off at the nearest bus station?”

“Maybe.”

Winters' voice took a distracted tone. “I think you should have that choice. Then you can decide how safe you feel.”

“Something happened,” she said.

It wasn't a question. It never was with her.

“I was on a raid that went bad.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Just my pride more than anything else.”

She was quiet until they'd passed through Talavera de la Reina. “If you choose to tell me the story,” she said, “tell the truth.”

“You sure you're not a psychiatrist?” Winters held up a hand. “No, if you were a therapist you would ask me if I always mask my pain with jokes.”

“I do not have to ask that,” she said.

“Because you know the answer,” Winters said. And suddenly he couldn't think of a punch line. “I was captured,” he continued.

“In the raid.”

“Yes.”

“And that was not your fault.”

“No one ever said it was.” Winters glanced over at her. “That wasn't what drove me to the edge.”

“I would think being captured would be enough. But then, I am not you.”

“I'm not sure I'm me either,” Winters said. “How much farther to Toledo?”

“We are nearly there, my friend.” She looked inexplicably shy. “Was that presumptuous of me?”

“What?”

“To call you my friend.”

“No,” Winters said. “It makes me feel safer.”

Half an hour later they had arrived in Toledo and found the large stone church on a back street. Sophia had called ahead to arrange a “tour” with the priest. Winters couldn't wait to see how old this guy was. At the rate they were going he was sure to be ninety if he was a day.

But the cassocked man who met them was fifty at the most, with graying tonsure and a strong chin. His brown eyes looked hungry for company.

“Father Ramone Padilla,” he said in perfect English. “You have come to see the records from the monastery.”

“We have, Father,” Sophia responded.

“Then let us walk and talk.” He led them into the church, talking as much with his hands as his mouth. “The records were moved here when the monastery closed. They were here for many hundreds of years.”

“Were?” Winters said.

He waited for Sophia to squeeze his arm. Yep, there it was.

“Most of them merely sat on a shelf in the church office before anyone thought to do anything to protect them. As you can imagine, they deteriorated noticeably during that time.”

Great.

They passed through a musty sanctuary and up the steps to the altar. Both Father Ramone and Sophia paused there and bowed silently before continuing to a door off to the side. Winters followed after them.

“We had a room constructed several years ago so we could control the environment for the records and perhaps extend their life a little longer.” He pushed the door open and stepped aside, allowing Winters and Sophia to enter. It was clearly temperature-controlled, but
the musty smell was still strong. Winters thought, if history had an odor, this was it.

“The records are here,” Padilla said, pointing to a row of plastic containers. “All I ask is that you use these.”

He produced two pairs of rubber gloves but it didn't appear many people came through here asking about the lives of long-dead monks. Speaking of which . . .

“Do you know if there's anything in here about a monk named Gaspar Gorricio?”

The look in Padillo's eyes hardened. “I thought you were genuine genealogical researchers looking for relatives, not plunderers of the treasures of Spain.”

Sophia spoke up. “
Señor
Winters is very likely a direct descendant of Christopher Columbus—”

“A story I have heard many times before.”

“From tourists?” Sophia asked as if she felt his pain.

“No,” Padillo said, standing straighter. “From bullies bent on taking what should be left alone.”

“Bullies, Father?” Sophia asked.

The reverend looked embarrassed. “They tried to strong-arm me but I refused to let them handle the records. After that, I put all references to Gaspar Gorricio in the safe.”

Winters followed Padillo's gaze to a framed print of a decidedly Spanish Jesus on the wall.

“I understand, Father,” Sophia said. “We are sorry to have taken your time.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for keeping our national treasures safe.”

She nodded Winters toward the door and he went, with one last glance at the kindly portrait.

“Wait.” Padillo sighed. “I have reacted poorly. It is obvious your hearts are sincere.”

“They are,” Sophia assured.

“Please,” he said. “Sit down.”

He turned his back to them and removed the print from the wall. Winters watched Padillo unlock the hidden safe and retrieve an object.

Padillo placed the plastic container and the two pairs of gloves reverently on the table and went to the window, leaving them to explore the disintegrating pieces of yellowed paper. Winters thought the priest might be praying until he realized he was sending a text message.

Winters wasn't much help with the contents of the box. The old, yellowed documents all were written in a mixture of Spanish and Latin, languages he knew little about. Consequently, Sophia did the sorting and reviewing. When she found something that seemed important she read it aloud to him in English so he could write it down. An hour later, he had gathered a disjointed list of dates and events.

Gorricio took a trip to Madrid late in 1492.

He made a trip to Valladolid early in the spring of 1506.

Columbus died in Valladolid. Gorricio had visited him two months before his death.

In June of 1506, right after Columbus died, Gorricio traveled to a monastery near Santa Cruz de la Serós. San Juan de la Peña.

“Which is where?” Winters asked.

“In the mountains near the French border,” Sophia replied. “A long way from Seville.”

“How far from here?”

“Six hours northeast,” Padilla said from the window.

Winters had all but forgotten he was there.

While Sophia wrote a check for the parish as an expression of their gratitude for being allowed to see the records, Winters wandered from the church and stood in the afternoon sunlight, gazing at an ornate pink building across the street that seemed to ramble haphazardly down the block.

There was no question they would go to San Juan la Peña. They'd come this far, so why not go all the way? But the chances of finding the journal now seemed about as good as Winters' winning the lottery, and the thought of that was disappointing on several levels.

He was about to enumerate them in his mind when he had an uncanny realization, something he hadn't experienced in a while. Lonnie Smith used to call it his “spider sense.” That inexplicable—and very accurate—sense that he was being watched.

Moving nonchalantly, Winters let his gaze drift over the churchyard, out to the street, and up the wall of the building on the other side. At first he saw nothing unusual, but after a moment he caught a glimpse of someone standing at a third-floor window. Just a glimpse—and then they were gone.

Winters glanced back at the church. Sophia stood in the doorway talking with Father Padillo. He could go in pursuit and let Sophia think he was a basket case, or he could leave it alone.

Before he could decide, Sophia moved away from the door and started toward him. “Father Padillo says there is a nice little inn just a few blocks east,” she said when she reached him.

“You know what?” Winters said. “I need some think time, and I think best when I'm driving. You mind if we go up the road a ways? Find something there?”

“Are you asking if you can drive my car?” she said, eyes dancing.

“I am,” he said. “I ran out of tranquilizers.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Bad joke,” Winters said. “How 'bout those keys?” he said, holding out his hand.

“You are incorrigible, Agent Winters,” she said.

Waiting for people to return her calls was becoming Maria's new career.

Her father was clearly not listening to his messages.

Taylor Donleavy's geekiness must have replaced social skills.

Snowden's meeting must still be going on.

And obviously James Rebhorn of the San Francisco Secret Service office was far too busy to let an agent's daughter know that her father was still alive.

The one person who did call her was Austin, although he had little to offer except to beg her to come home.

Maria was on the phone with him again the next morning as she took another convoluted route from her apartment to Catalonia. A longer journey than usual, it gave them plenty of time to talk.

“I'm getting paranoid,” she told him as she passed through the iron entryway into La Boqueria.

“It's only paranoia if people
aren't
out to get you,” Austin said. “But listen, I learned something.”

“What?”

“These protests that are going on about the debt limit.”

“Yeah?”

“The organization sponsoring them has ties to Catalonia Financial. And every Congressman who's pushing to keep the ceiling where it is can be linked to Catalonia, too—mostly through campaign contributions.”

Maria dawdled at the fruit market examining an orange but seeing only Austin's long face. “Why does Catalonia care about our debt limit? I mean, I know the American economy affects the entire world, but I don't see this company struggling to stay afloat.”

“I don't know but I don't like it. Oh, and that hit-and-run—the Jason Elliot thing?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Turns out he was thrown out of a vehicle and then run over. At least that's what the media is saying.” Maria heard him sigh. “I know it doesn't do me any good to ask you to come home, but at least be careful. Where are you right now?”

“About a mile from the office.”

“Okay, call me every two hours. Otherwise I'm reporting you missing.”

“Now who's paranoid?” Maria said.

Austin hung up and Maria dropped the phone in her pocket. It was hard not to look around to make sure nobody had seen her do it, which was why the car that was idling in the alley across the street caught her eye. She hadn't told Austin this wasn't the best neighborhood—and definitely not the kind where you parked your pricey sedan.